Death Revealed
by Itsygo
Summary: After The Key.
1. Revealed

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.**

**Arkarian**

My father is dead. And although not exactly the affectionate parent who carried me on his back when I was little, or taught me how to hunt down my first rabbit, he was my mentor and patron for centuries. He had trained me to handle a sword, string a bow, block my thoughts, alleviate pain. He had gifted me with eternal youth. He had been there for me for six hundred years. And even though I know now that as his son I was always to be initiated by the Guard, I cannot help but be grateful to him for offering me an escape from the menial, often cruel life of a lowly servant in the war-ravaged Medieval France.

Matt, however, sees no reason why he should let me mourn in peace. He pulls me away from Isabel and Ethan with an apparent wish to discuss something he has deemed a suitable topic for this time of general loss and tragedy.

"I know this is not a good time," he begins, and I nod curtly, uninterested in insincere apologies proffered only to appease me into answering his questions. "When Ethan said . . . you two rescued Isabel's soul from the middle world . . . What did that mean?"

I am tempted to advise my venerable cousin to ask Ethan himself, just to watch him struggle with his logic, but pettiness has never been something I particularly enjoyed. Me being difficult will not ameliorate Matt's egocentrism.

"It means that her soul was in the middle world, and Ethan and I went after it."

"I gathered that much, Arkarian. What does that _mean_?"

"It means the body she was using while on a mission died," I select my wording carefully. His dubious frown gradually relaxes and then quickly shifts into an openmouthed expression of horror.

"She died on a mission?" he exclaims, thankfully in a reasonably quiet voice. I do want to tell Isabel what happened, but even though enough time has passed to assure me that the event would not impact her psyche in any great way, there is also the matter of me keeping a secret from her. To the best of my judgment, it was the most pragmatic thing to do, but I still feel like I am breaking her trust.

"The body she was borrowing died," I sigh.

"And Isabel's body?"

"Isabel's body was in her bed."

"Did she wake up when . . . that _other_ body died?"

I study his face before replying. "No, Matt. Her soul left the borrowed body and, as it was not in her own, it went on to the middle world."

He rubs his temples, sending me filthy looks through his circling fingers. "When did this happen?"

"Last year."

"And what exactly is this middle world?" he asks after a ruminative pause.

"A path that completes death," I say at length. Matt blinks, again and again, before speaking. I notice Neriah watching him; it is an empty, numb look, but for all I know, she may be reading Matt's unshielded thoughts as easily as I am. A part of me likes the notion – I want her to hear this and pass it on to Isabel, so I, the coward that I am, do not have to be the one to tell her. But then, is it right to burden her with this knowledge just because it would make _me_ feel better?

"So let me get this straight," Matt's voice, unpleasantly laced with a note of acerbity, interrupts my internal debate. "Isabel basically _died_, and you still let her go on other missions?"

"Isabel knows the risks of the Guard."

He shakes his head, mouthing soundless curses, and lunges at me. Idiot.

I twist away, and grab the back of his neck as he misses my body. His thoughts echo with surprise for a split second, but then he regains control and uses his wings to teleport behind me. In the back of my mind, I hear a woman's scream, a man's shout, Isabel's maledictions as she realizes what her brother is trying to do. I transport myself to a corner, a thick glass shelf about five feet off the ground. Matt looks up at me angrily and jumps, impressively high, crashing into the rock wall as I leave it at the last second.

Isabel sees me rematerialize and throws herself at me.

"Get away from him, Isabel, so I can kill him," Matt seethes in an almost comically maniacal way.

"You are not killing anyone, you stupid prick!" Isabel's small head swings around to face her choleric brother. His cheeks turn progressively redder as he comes to the realization that he cannot hit me without harming his sister in the process.

"Oh, look, Arkarian, she's defending you, but don't you wonder if she would still do it if she knew the truth?"

"What truth? What are you talking about?"

"Why don't you ask him? Go on, ask him, ask him about how he risked your life for his fucking Guard!"

"Matt."

Every single head turns to Ethan. His voice is raspy, strangely emotional. This may be the first time he is speaking since Marduke's death.

"You knew about this, Ethan. You are just as guilty as him."

"Yet I don't see you trying to kill _me_," Ethan says mockingly, coming to stand between me and Matt. I feel a flood of gratitude.

"As you said, I am just as guilty. So why are you attacking him and not me?"

"He . . . I -"

"Do you feel bad for me? Because, I don't know if you noticed, but Arkarian lost someone too. I see no sense in sparing me and attacking him when our situation is very much the same."

"Rochelle was your soul-mate," Matt says, obvious confusion playing in his eyes. "Lorian..."

"Lorian was his Trainer. The only family he had. Well, except for Lathenia, Dartemis, and you, but since you're doing such a pathetic job with that, might as well not count you."

Matt's mouth falls open as he contemplates our family ties. "That is not the point," he says finally. "I cannot see what sympathy you can possibly expect when you have risked my sister's life for your own selfish purposes."

"We have all risked our lives for the Guard. Be thankful you still have Isabel."

Matt shakes his head and walks out of the chamber, leaving me unsure that I could ever truly forgive him.


	2. Confessed

**Isabel**

Matt has crossed the line. Not that this is a novel concept to behold – he's been crossing lines with Arkarian ever since the episode in the underworld, it is just that this particular one is a bit harder to cross back.

I am furious. He actually attacked him! Not only was that unbearably stupid – I mean, Arkarian could take on Lathenia – but also incredibly disrespectful. What a controlling, megalomaniacal imbecile. Who does he think he is? I feel like stabbing him in his immortal throat.

"Isabel," Arkarian's voice wakes me from my fantasy of castrating my brother with a swift stroke of my sword. I look up at him, kissing his chest. "Isabel, we need to talk."

I frown in confusion and let him lead me out into the hallway.

"Isabel... Matt is right, to a degree. I should have told you, but I did not think it was the right time for you to hear it."

"Hear what?" I ask, fighting a sense of dread. He looks at me gently, with something like regret darkening his beautiful eyes, and brushes my palm with his thumb. The sensation makes me break out in goose bumps. Then he lets go.

"Do you remember," he says softly, with a sigh, "your mission with Ethan, the one where Marduke showed up?"

"Yeah."

"Marduke threw Ethan's knife at you."

"And Ethan saved me."

"No."

"No? _You_ saved me?"

"That's not the point."

"Wait, you saved me, but you said Ethan did!" I cannot stifle my excitement. I have no clue why they would lie to me about that, but Arkarian being my savior makes things somehow more romantic.

"Isabel –"

"Why would you say Ethan did it?"

"Isabel. I could not tell you what really happened. You –"

His voice cracks and he brings a hand to his mouth, watching me with an undecipherable expression. I do not understand his sudden silence until I catch a gleaming teardrop in front of a purple iris. Arkarian is crying. I move to hug him, but he holds up a hand, regaining his composure. When he speaks, his voice is too quiet, words too slow to form.

"You died on that mission. The body you were using, at any rate. Your soul, outside your own body, accepted the death and went on to the middle world, a place that the dead walk before finding their final destination."

I died? That's a weird notion. I don't exactly know how to react to it.

"Ethan insisted I transport him to this middle world in order to save you. I thought it was impossible – it had never been done before. But he went anyway, running after you, calling your name. But you could not hear him. And that... that is when I realized that _I_ had to go."

"Why not Ethan?"

"The dead... They only hear... Oh God."

"They hear God?"

"They only hear the voice of their soul-mates," he breaks down, tears cascading down his cheeks, reflecting the candlelight. I take him into my arms, and this time, he doesn't protest. His sobs are buried in my shoulder as I support his weight uncomfortably. It's not that I am weak, of course I am not, he is just literally twice my body mass.

He hears my thoughts and pulls back, giving me an embarrassed smile, wiping his right eye with the base of his palm. But this facade crumbles within seconds, and fresh tears come forward, falling to the stone floor, darkening the gray of the rock. I look at Arkarian, a bubble of fear, and maybe desire, swelling in my chest. Unable to stand the pain, I grab his head and draw it toward me, baring my teeth against his wet lips, forcing his mouth open with my tongue. He kisses me back wildly, with more aggression I thought he would ever be capable of, pushing me against the wall, fingers digging deep into my waist. His tears spill over my face; his short stubble scratches my skin. I feel like I am melting, wet and warm and maddened with lust. Arkarian tugs my arm above the elbow and we start moving, half stumbling, toward an open doorway. With unfocused eyes, I glimpse a bed.

Good.


	3. Forgiven

**Arkarian**

I want to think that this is about her, that this unbearable pain is something beautiful and meaningful, an innocent, overwhelming fear of losing someone I love. But it isn't. This is selfish and base, carnal and violent, an ancient rage that I do not have the strength to keep bottled up anymore, not today, not this hour. This is not about losing Isabel or about Lorian's death or about my helpless empathy for Ethan. This is about me, _my_ life, _my_ anger, _my_ broken heart. This is _my_ six hundred years spent in a waning hope of belonging somewhere other than a society that needs me for my skills. Six hundred years of convincing myself that it is good enough to exist for an ulterior purpose, for a destiny I never chose.

I am tired of serving, of bowing, of swallowing insults and ignoring impulses. And even as I know that this rage will abate, perhaps even within minutes, it is not enough for now. I want vengeance – for a ravaged childhood, for a dead mother, for a distant father, for a lifetime of solitude. It destroys me that I want it.

I wish Isabel would stop me, push me away, but she has her own demons that she is drowning in me just as I am killing mine in her. We are using each other, and I will regret this, but I don't have the willpower to resist her lips, her body on mine, my body in hers. Her cries are muted and brave as she pretends that she does not feel the pain. My hands sting with the same immortal power I used to think I could never create, and she winces under my touch, plunging deeper into its electric grip. I glide my fingers to her waist and push down, and her throat opens in a silent scream. She stretches around me, painfully, and I am engulfed in her wet warmth. It feels too good to feel remorse.

I feel her nails and teeth on me, in my skin, in my flesh, fingers pulling at the roots of my hair. The sensation is incredible. She trembles in my arms, I think both from agony and pleasure. Her muscles clench in tiny spasms, in rhythm with her short, rushed exhalations. I know I will not last much longer, while Isabel is nowhere near her climax. Impulsively, I pull out, without having reached my own.

Isabel's palpitating body slowly calms. The beats of her heart against my chest become more even. I hug her tightly, wishing to never let go.

"I love you," I whisper to hide the tremor in my voice. She is not fooled. Her lips press against my cheek in a vellicating vacuum, kissing my tears away. I laugh and I cry, knowing that the one I love is the greatest woman that ever lived.

**

* * *

**

It is not as graphic as I originally intended it to be, which may disappoint some of you. Sorry.


	4. Forgotten

**Isabel**

I wake up. The room is probably pretty dark, but my eyes sting with the golden glare of the candlelight. I look around hoping to see Arkarian, but his side of the bed is flat; I see only a rippled sheet of crimson silk, empty and lonely.

Where is Arkarian? Does sex really change people? Was it so horrible that he does not want to see me ever again? Do I not turn him on? Where is he? Where are my clothes?

It takes me a while to spot the latter; most of my things are intertwined with the sheets and blankets at the food of the bed, but I can only find one sock, and my bra is missing. My shirt is inside out, sticking out of a huge black sleeve that definitely does not belong to me. Arkarian's sweater! I pull it on over my tank top, and leave the room, barefoot. I think about going to the bathroom; my hair is knotted, and there is a coagulated feeling between my legs. I wonder if there is any blood.

As I near the octagonal chamber, a soft sound of an orchestra playing fills my ears. I quicken my pace, interested; I have never witnessed Arkarian listen to any sort of music before. And though I am not a huge fan of classical pieces, this does sound very nice.

"Romantic," Arkarian's head pops up in the doorway giving me a kiss. I smile against his mouth, thrusting my fingers into his hair to keep him close. Too late, I realize that I have morning breath.

"What were you saying?" I ask, hoping my face is a picture of innocence. As opposed to a generator of halitosis.

"Oh. Romantic. Not Classical. The music," he tells me, gesturing uncertainly.

"Ah," I nod, realizing at length that he is referring to my unspoken thoughts. "It's nice. What is it?"

"Schubert's Eighth Symphony."

I nod as if I know what that means. "Did, um, did everyone leave?"

"Well, yes. It's five in the morning, you know."

"Oh. God. Damn. And Jimmy...?"

"Don't worry. Jimmy will cover for you."

"When did you wake up?"

He shrugs. "Forty minutes ago, maybe. Are you hungry?"

I arch an eyebrow in surprise. There is no food here. He looks at me, chewing on a piece of loose skin on his bottom lip. "There is," he responds.

I frown; Arkarian does not go outside, courtesy of his stunning lazuline hair and purple eyes, and as he does not exactly grow his own crops or livestock, I don't expect him to have any comestibles in his possessions now that the Citadel is gone. "Is it...edible?

He bursts out laughing. "No. It's six hundred years old. Had it transported from Medieval France last night." I open my mouth to protest, suspecting that he is serious. After all, he has those stools from his childhood...

"They are _stools_, Isabel," he patiently explains. "They don't spoil, and they don't cause indigestion."

I ram my fist into his bicep and he laughs, kissing my temple. "Jimmy bought food for me," he tells me in a sober voice, "now that I have to stay here."

I hug him, squeezing his perfect waist tightly. A realization unfolds in my head and I smile broadly. "You're staying here! In Angel Falls!"

"Yes...?" he attests slowly, as though wondering what the point of stating the obvious is. I pout, unsure of how to express my sentiments without seeming like a desperate, lovesick little idiot.

"You know," I say vaguely, feeling my cheeks blush. "We can spend more time together. If you want, of course."

"Of course I want it," he smiles his enchantingly beautiful smile. "As soon as you come back from school."

I give him the finger, trusting the sign is universal enough to be recognized by six-hundred-year-olds.


	5. Remembered

**Arkarian**

Isabel leaves for school grudgingly, running back twice to give me a kiss. I laugh and send her off, uneasiness mounting with every second. Matt is outside my chambers, and while I have no trouble identifying his presence, I cannot fully sense his thoughts. When Isabel is finally gone, I open the door for him, waiting inside with a blank expression.

"I went overboard," he tells me without wasting time on greetings. I do nothing to acknowledge his statement.

"But how can you honestly tell me that you love her after proving that the Guard is more important to you than she is? I mean...I don't doubt that you love her. I know you do. I know that without her you feel empty and all that other epic stuff. But you don't love her enough. You don't love her enough to put her wellbeing before the Guard, before the Prophecy. I mean, fuck the Prophecy! If I had to choose between Neriah and the Guard, you better believe I wouldn't hesitate a second before telling them all to fuck themselves. And you didn't do that for Isabel. You were more concerned with the outcome of the Prophecy, with the good of the whole world, with her predestined role, with what your superiors told you. You can never be the man I want my sister to spend her life with, and I know I cannot change how Isabel feels about you, but do not expect me to be content with your relationship."

I regard him seriously, a dose of respect mixing with my annoyance.

"_Our_ relationship, Matt. Don't expect to have a say in it. And do not come up with theories on how _I_ feel about Isabel and why _I_ acted the way I did. You of all should know the adversity Lathenia would have brought to our world had she won. Had we lost the best healer the Guard ever had, I seriously doubt we would have won. Ethan would be dead. Shaun too." _And I as well._

"And? That proves my point?"

"What point? That Isabel would have been better off discharged from the Guard while the Earth is getting swarmed with plagues and wars, demons and wren, Lathenia and her belligerent army?"

"That is not my point," he insists. "That is not _the_ point."

"That is what it comes down too. Secondly – I'm not finished – Isabel wanted to be in the Guard. I could not deny her her life's purpose for what I personally thought was best for her. And thirdly, being in the Guard does not mean instant death. People outside of it die too, in the unlikely case that you have not noticed. And Marduke knew who she was. He would have been after her anyway, regardless of whether she was with us or not. The Order knew her identity, and Marduke was out to get Ethan. The simple fact that Isabel may not have been affiliated with the Guard any longer would not have stopped them. If this does not make sense to you, I have nothing further to say. You have insulted me enough as it is, and I am not quite masochistic enough to enjoy your presence here."

I pointedly look over his shoulders at the mountain path behind him, and his eyes flutter closed in defeat. He breathes out loudly, as if to let me know he is attempting to calm himself lest he loses his patience and tries to jump me again. Malevolently, I begin materializing the door before he is gone from the doorway, and he steps back, glaring at me. The stone reforms, and I lean against its cold face.


	6. Accepted

**Isabel**

At lunch, Dillon accosts me cheerfully: "How was your night with the loverboy?"

"Oh, it was great," I smile. "How was your night with your hand?"

Neriah, ever the well-bred sweetheart, chokes on her milk. Dillon stares at me with a puzzled expression and then bursts out laughing. Even Ethan grins, something he has not done in days. I am in high spirits – who wouldn't be after spending an entire night with Arkarian? – and my brother's absence puts me in an even better mood. I want to ask others where he is, but I don't want to let them know I care. Neriah evidently picks up on my thoughts.

"He went to the bathroom," she says with a sympathetic smile, scooting over until we are confidentially hunched next to each other. "He really didn't mean anything bad last night."

"Neriah," I sigh, "you saw how he acted. He tried to knock him out. They were practically flying around the room."

"Oh, yeah, that was the shit!" Dillon thumps his palm enthusiastically.

"Yeah, but Isabel," Neriah ignores Dillon's remark, "he was worried about you... And I'm not saying he was right, but he thought he was. And he thought Arkarian shouldn't have done what he did. He said if it were him, he wouldn't put the Guard before your life."

I raise my eyebrows, feeling my face freeze in a cold expression. "Is that what you think? That Arkarian was wrong and that he does not love me enough?"

"Isabel, that's not what -"

"Because I have done something very similar to that. I had a chance to change Arkarian's life, to give him the mother he never had, to do away with so much pain and suffering he had to endure... I could have done it, you know. Changed the past. But the Guard has rules, and as much as I wanted to do it, I couldn't. I know what Arkarian went through. And then, nobody stops to think about what I would have wanted. Everybody is just so appalled at Arkarian's selfishness or whatever, but do you think I'd actually prefer having my memories erased and dropping out from the Guard? Are you insane?"

Neriah bites her lower lip. I am not sure that I have convinced her, but she will not disagree with me because she knows she is threading on eggshells. I cannot believe her. What is everyone's issue with Arkarian? And what is everyone's issue with how _he_ treats _me_? This is between _us_. _Our_ relationship. Not Matt's, not Neriah's. Fuck!

"I'm sorry," she hangs her head. I rise, preparing to leave.

"Where're you going?" Dillon burps. I shrug noncommittally. Ethan gets up too, following me silently.

I sigh, blowing out air from my puffed up cheeks. "God... I can't believe all of them."

Ethan nods, sliding his hands in his pockets. "You know," he tells me, frowning at the sunlight, "when the whole thing happened, I thought the same thing they did. I asked him to get the Tribunal to dismiss you and erase your memory. It's not what I really wanted, I knew you were made for the Guard, but I felt like it was my fault. I mean, it was. It was my fault. Marduke was out to get you because of me. And I didn't want that responsibility on my hands, regardless of what you wanted for yourself. And at the time, I did think Arkarian was selfish – I always got the feeling that he didn't want you dropped from the Guard because he hoped for a chance to be with you – but what I wanted was just as selfish, for other reasons. At least his wishes coincided with your own. And he's right, even if you had nothing to do with the Guard anymore, Marduke would not care. He'd still try to hurt you. The damage was already done, and taking away your place with us would have been pointless."

I look at him, my eyes brimming with tears. "I feel like I hate everyone who thinks anything bad about Arkarian," I whisper. "They have no right to judge him. Matt, okay, he is an idiot, he has always been overprotective, I can understand him. But Neriah? She's got nothing to do with this. And she is defending Matt and basically telling me that Arkarian was wrong."

"I hate it too, Isabel. God... When he saved you from that middle world place, you have no idea what a wreck he was. I almost felt like killing you myself."

I cannot help but laugh at this.

"I'm serious. Isabel, he has been my best friend since I was, what, five?"

"You know the complete attire of a city dweller in medieval Russia but you have no idea how old you were when you met your best friend?"

Ethan laughs softly before assuming a serious tone. "I care about him a lot. And it pained me to no end to see him like that. You thought you loved me, and he was dying inside. He stopped eating. He read like fifteen books a day to distract himself. He even drank, for fuck's sake. He never drinks, Isabel. Fuck. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I just... Just know that he loves you more than he loves himself, and he would never, ever, hurt you purposely. Don't listen to them."

"I won't," I smile, trying to wipe my tears off. I don't particularly succeed, and when I see that Ethan is crying as well, I just let myself collapse into his arms. Through my blurry, wet vision, I see Matt staring at us.


	7. Imposed

**Arkarian**

When I return to the main chamber, Dartemis is waiting for me.

"My son is really something, isn't he?" he says, smiling. I stare at him intolerantly before turning away to look at a machine to his right. The Magician sighs and gets to the point.

"This mission cannot go on. We have the remaining members of the Order to deal with. We can't just sit around reading books."

"And we can't lose Ethan."

"He'll live," Dartemis says so coldly that it makes me wonder how it must be for him, separated from his soul-mate, watching her live with someone else. "Arkarian, I will speak to you as a Guard to a Guard. It will offend you, and it should."

"I'm listening."

"I respect that Ethan is your friend. But you need to keep friendship out of the Guard's business. Believe me, I do not want Ethan to die. But I also do not think it's necessary to go on with this. Firstly, we have no solid proof that anything will happen to him."

_Alright, gut feelings and intuition are not solid proof, but they've done wonders for us in retrieving the King of Veridian._

"Secondly," Dartemis continues as though he has not heard my thoughts, "what you want directly contradicts the purpose of the Guard. You want to overthrow millennia of principles for one life. Arkarian, the Guard _guards_ history. We cannot change it whimsically every time we are dissatisfied with it. Even if we had the proper equipment, we can't do it. Even if there was a chance of succeeding, you are morally barred from doing this. You know that."

"I do," I reply flatly.

"It is against your Oaths, Arkarian."

I shrug. "It is so."

"Lastly, the Guard has other very important things to deal with."

"I'm not disputing that. I know that we need to rebuild the Citadel, and I know members of the Order still remain loose. But do we not owe it to Ethan as friends, or colleagues, if you insist, to try and save him?"

"Arkarian, life is what _we_ may want for him."

He says no more, and I understand. Leaving me in utter, desperate confusion, the immortal gives me a curt nod and disappears from my sight.


	8. Foreseen

**Isabel**

Instead of using his wings to get home, Matt decides to take the old-fashioned route. Funny how that coincides with taking the bus with me, huh?

Thankfully, Neriah keeps his attention diverted, and although I am still annoyed at her little input at lunch, I am grateful for her presence. When she is around, Matt is off my back, and at times like these, when Matt feels that he owns my life, that couldn't be a better thing.

For the most part, they ignore me, something I happily reciprocate. Neriah, however, considers it appropriate to ask for my opinion on such things as the weather, the flooded toilet at school, and the impending arrival of our new history teacher. Both of us tactfully avoid the mention of Mr Carter, too closely related to Ethan and what he is going through right now. I mumble my answers, resolving to buy an iPod. It must be great for occasions such as these. And also, I could download Arkarian's favorite music. That thing he was listening to sounded really, really nice.

The bus finally reaches our stop, and I jump out. The lovebirds have ceased talking out loud, undoubtedly continuing their conversation in a more Truthseeing manner. I walk in front of them, continuously increasing the distance between us. When I reach the front door, they are nothing more than two tiny figures at the horizon.

I cannot wait to take a shower and get into some clean clothes, but my mother has other plans.

"How was your night?" she chirps, blocking my way. "How's Jasmine?"

I frown, trying to figure out in what way exactly Jasmine connects with my night. Over Mum's shoulder, I see Jimmy mouthing something, and though I am too distracted by the sight of his red polka dot apron to focus on what he is saying, I get the general idea.

"It was nice," I say. I vaguely remember reading something about how good lies are made better by details. "We studied for an English test."

"Oh, good. Didn't you do really badly on the last one?"

"I _told_ you, I wasn't feeling good."

"Yeah, you told me. Just do better on this one, alright? I know you don't think school is important now, but grades _do_ matter."

"Mum..."

"Come on, luv, let's leave her alone. Look at her, she's dying for some rest." He winks at me. "School is not that important, really."

"Jimmy!" she gives him a mock horrified expression, chuckling. "Hold on, Isabel, you have something on your shirt."

I look down tiredly, with mounting annoyance. Who cares if I have something on my shirt, just let me take a goddamn shower!

"There," her hand sweeps across my collarbone, fingers closing around something that looks like a piece of electric blue thread. I gulp, hoping Jimmy didn't notice. But he is right behind Mum, and his expression of distaste tells me very clearly that my prayers have not been answered.

"Oh, look, your brother is home," Mum says, forgetting all about me and my shirt. "Hi, Neriah."

"Hey," Neriah gives my mother a shy wave. Jimmy tugs on my wrist, turning my attention to him.

"That hair was far too short to have come from his head," he says quietly. I look down. He sighs.

"Just... If you do anything, use protection. OK?"

I try to nod, but Jimmy's face distorts, shaping into Ethan's. His eyes stare out blankly, his blue irises terrifying and ugly in the midst of myriad red veins. I feel pain pierce my head, and almost fall, my knees giving. Jimmy holds me up. I know he does, although I cannot see him. In my field of vision there is only Ethan, holding up a golden arrow, blowing gently into it until it leaves his palm, flying into the distance. Breathlessly, I watch it soar. And then it turns around, and I scream.


	9. Considered

**Arkarian**

Courtesy of Lorian's amplification of the powers of the Named, I am now capable of seeing Isabel's visions. For the most part, this is an advantageous, serviceable ability. But when you see in such a vision the death of your best friend, the person you have helped nurture from early childhood into maturity, you begin to wish that you never received this gift.

It cannot be avoided – I must go outside. I curse my vanity; long hair may suit me better, but right now it presents nothing but a liability and a waste of time. I untie my ponytail and focus mentally on the loose strands, forcing them to separate into thin sections and weave around each other until every single hair is braided back into thick, tight cornrows, out of my face, easily hidden by a large hood.

Just to be safe, and to a certain, pathetic degree shield my eyes, I invoke a baseball hat from one of the locked up rooms in the mountain's rocky womb and plant in on my head. Convinced that I am ready, I take a brief look in the mirror to inspect my disguise, but what I see makes me want to slap myself for my carelessness. My hair is nowhere to be seen, which is great, and my eye color cannot be easily discerned in the shadow of the hat and the hood of my sweatshirt. But my eyelashes and eyebrows, previously forgotten, glare defiantly at me with their electric blue stubbornness.

Disoriented, I try to find something that would conceal the color, but the mascara from the prop room is dry, and I do not have enough time to experiment with bleach. Finally, I grab a marker, and with a few awkward strokes, become a brunet.

Finally ready to go, I dematerialize myself, stepping into the world that I have avoided for years.

* * *

My memory of Shaun's house is hazy, and there is always the danger of a passerby seeing me emerge out of thin air, but right now there is no time for half measures. For Ethan's sake, I have to gamble, and this is the least I can do.

Thankfully, no one is around when I appear on Shaun's doorstep. I ring the bell with a sigh of relief.

But as I wait to be let in, Dartemis' words resurface, filling me with doubts. What right do I have to tell someone how to live or how to die? If Isabel – Gods forbid – died now, and I decided that I did not want to live without her, would I really want someone to interfere with my plans of suicide? Our attitude towards this is that time heals all, but none of us have truly put ourselves in Ethan's position. Maybe he does not want to wait until his memory of Rochelle fades to determine whether he wants to live or not. We should honor his decisions right now, not treat him like a sick weakling who is impotent to make his own choices because of grief. But all I want to do, all I need to do, is buy some time. I need days, weeks at most. And then we can turn back the clock, even if it means Marduke's return.


End file.
